


Things Unpure Unchaste

by angelowl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - High School, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, There was only one sleeping bag, trapped in a blizzard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26343739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelowl/pseuds/angelowl
Summary: At first Jaime assumes Tyrion and Margaery will take the bed as the only resident couple in their crew and that the girls will take the sofa. Leaving him to spend a night roughing it on the cold, hard floor with Bronn.He can tell Brienne assumes the same, but then Sansa smiles at Jaime hopefully just as Bronn saunters closer to Brienne, leering at her long legs as if he's imagining what a nice necklace they’ll make.Brienne blushes scarlet and blinks her stupid blue eyes, looking as trapped as a deer caught in the headlights, and Jaime clenches his jaw. He feels like he's eating glass as he claims Brienne for his own, saying they’ll take the floor since they're both too tall and their feet would hang off the sofa.And then Brienne has the nerve to scowl at him as if he's sticking it to her instead of taking one for the team and saving her from Bronn’s roaming hands.You should be blowing me kisses, he thinks.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 102
Kudos: 358





	Things Unpure Unchaste

Jaime doesn’t even know why they invited her. Brienne Tarth must be the biggest killjoy known to man. She’s so fucking touchy about everything. Can’t take a joke to save her life.

He barely gets behind the wheel before she starts nagging him. 

He brought it on himself, insisting Brienne ride shotgun. But it’s not like he had a choice in the matter. 

There wasn’t going to be enough room for the others in the backseat. So when Bronn suggested Brienne sit on his lap, Jaime had no choice but to boot Tyrion into the backseat and move her up front, citing her long legs as the reason for the relocation. 

Brienne had given him the barest glance of gratitude and he’d thought this was maybe going to be fun, only for her to become all schoolmarmish as soon as he peeled out of the parking lot.

She spends the next few hours urging him to slow down over and over again and each time he ignores her, she glares at him fiercely which means he feels the need to step on it even more. Plus, she has bad taste in music and refuses to sing along like the uptight, stick-up-her-ass priss she is.

Then she glowers at him accusatorily when they hit a patch of black ice and the car swerves off the road and gets stuck in a ditch. As if that's his fault or something. 

Then after they trudge through a motherfucking blizzard to find a rundown, deserted cabin, she about shits a brick when he chooses her as his sleep buddy.

At first Jaime assumes Tyrion and Margaery will take the bed as the only resident couple in their crew and that the girls will take the sofa. Leaving him to spend a night roughing it on the cold, hard floor with Bronn. 

He can tell Brienne assumes the same, but then Sansa smiles at Jaime hopefully just as Bronn saunters closer to Brienne, leering at her long legs as if he's imagining what a nice necklace they’ll make. 

Brienne blushes scarlet and blinks her stupid blue eyes, looking as trapped as a deer caught in the headlights, and Jaime clenches his jaw. He feels like he's eating glass as he claims Brienne for his own, saying they’ll take the floor since they're both too tall and their feet would hang off the sofa. 

And then Brienne has the nerve to scowl at him as if he's sticking it to her instead of taking one for the team and saving her from Bronn’s roaming hands. 

_You should be blowing me kisses_ , he thinks. 

God knows Brienne avoids physical contact at all costs. She _tolerates_ how affectionate Margaery is, but still stiffens up a bit each time her best friend laces her arm through hers. But that’s nothing compared to how painfully shy she is around boys. 

When that giant creep Tormund had grabbed her about the waist last month and tried to plant one on her, she’d shoved him to the ground. Everyone else had been too busy laughing to notice that she was trembling ever so slightly as she strode off, her cheeks ablaze. 

Later that day Jaime had found her shooting hoops. He’d joined her on the court, delivering his best trash talk to get her out of her funk until she was boiling with fury. Fury was infinitely better than hurt or ashamed or whatever the fuck that awful cast on her face had meant all day long.

But here’s the thing...she lets Jaime touch her. He’s the only boy she does. Not that he’s bragging or anything. But like, sometimes he pats her on the back after she scores a goal and she _lets_ him. 

The first time he did it she shot him a dirty look, but the second time she seemed to get that he wasn’t being a dick about it, and kind of almost smiled. Or at least didn’t frown. Now it’s just expected, and it’d be weird if he didn’t do it.

And like, if they’re in a crowd and he just happens to be standing beside her, she’ll almost lean into him. He doesn’t think she even realizes she’s doing it. But it’s sort of obvious. At least to him it is.

And last year when Hyle and Red and all those cunts had surrounded her, Jaime had barreled his way into the center of the throng in time to see Brienne haul off and punch Red. She’d backed up into him and when she turned, fists raised, she’d just instantly relaxed like she knew it was okay. He was okay.

They’d gleefully beaten up the rest of the crowd together...those that didn’t flee like cowards, that is. And afterward, she’d let him put his arm around her and lead her to his car. When he’d pulled into her driveway she’d reached out and touched his split lip gingerly, her eyes impossibly soft, and for a moment...he’d thought...but then she’d jerked away as if scalded and fled into her house.

But they don’t talk about that day. Not ever. 

Just like they don’t talk about the day she’d taken a fall during gym class and skinned her knee. After school he'd driven her home and she’d sat on the bathroom counter as he rifled through the medicine cabinet. 

“I can do that myself,” she’d yelped, squirming in an altogether distracting way. But he’d danced out of her reach and hidden the antibiotic cream and box of band-aids behind his back and tutted at her to sit still. 

He’d tugged her baggy shorts above her knee, appreciated her mile-long legs properly for the first time up close and personal. Felt the strength of her muscular thigh as he slid his palm underneath to support her leg as he cleaned the wound then applied some cream and secured the band-aid. The skin of her inner thigh was like silk. Before she could shift forward to stand, he’d dropped to one knee on the floor. She’d been so adorably flustered at the sight of him kneeling before her. 

He’d looked up at her from between her legs and licked his lips. “Don’t you want me to kiss it better?” She’d gaped at him and he’d chuckled then delivered a butterfly kiss to her knee before she came to her senses and kicked out at him. 

She’d shivered at his lashes fluttering against her bare skin and he’d wanted to kiss his way up her thigh. Yank her shorts down to her ankles, haul her lily-white thighs over his shoulders and fit his mouth against her through her cotton panties. He’d peered at her florid face, noted the flicker of alarm in her eyes, and smoothed the leg of her shorts back down to her knee with a perfunctory pat to her thigh.

Then he’d stood, wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her without warning, taking a moment to relish that singular feeling of holding Brienne Tarth aloft. He'd told her he was strong enough.

She’d been so shocked, scandalized, she’d released a shriek as her feet dangled in mid-air and Jaime had instantly wondered what else he might do to elicit such a sound. 

Her expression had turned stern, however, when he lowered her to the floor and she found her footing. Jaime had immediately taken off running because he knew she’d make him pay for hearing such a frightfully girly sound from her. He’d been right. She’d chased him down the stairs and assaulted him with a throw pillow until he’d cried uncle. 

Nor do they talk about the day they’d gone horseback riding at Margaery’s. He’d seen Brienne in her skin-tight breeches and about keeled over at the sight. He’d had the irresistible urge to tug her up into the saddle right in front of him. The thought of them straddling the horse together, her powerful thighs lined up with his all nice and snug, of his arms conveniently circling her waist so he could grip the reins was...intriguing. 

Jaime had taken off at a canter and let the bracing wind in his face cool his ardor so he didn’t embarrass himself. It hadn’t worked. Fortunately, Pia had assumed she was the cause of his predicament and led him into the stables for a quick roll in the hay. 

After, he’d reeked of Pia’s perfume and sex. Brienne had taken one look at the hickeys on his neck and Pia’s blouse on inside out and blanched. He’d tried to feign nonchalance, whistling jauntily, as he ignored some of the hoots and hollers from the guys. 

When he’d hovered near Brienne later, she’d reached out and plucked a spare bit of hay from his hair then gone very still and hunched her shoulders as if she’d only just realized what she’d done and was waiting for him to taunt her about wanting a piece of him. He’d felt inexplicably ashamed and fought the nonsensical urge to apologize to her.

And they definitely don’t talk about the day they got caught in the rain before school four months ago and her white t-shirt was plastered to her skin, completely see-through, and she wasn’t wearing a bra so he could see _everything_. 

He could see her small breasts, her nipples pebbling like they were just begging for attention. Her right breast was a little bigger than her left and her areolas took up more real estate than expected. He couldn’t help ogling her and she’d crossed her arms and it had done absolutely nothing to dispel the memory of her pink, pink nipples poking through the soaked cotton. 

They don’t talk about how her gaze had lingered over his chest and arms, how his had lingered over her breasts and her wet khakis clinging to her shapely thighs. How he’d wanted to pull her into the janitor’s closet and peel her drenched clothes off, put his hands all over her, kiss the raindrops from her skin and connect her freckles with his tongue. How he thought she might have let him. 

How instead he’d found an over-sized sweatshirt in his locker and tossed it at her. “Put it on,” he’d snapped, barked really, and hauled ass to the restroom so he could take himself in hand.

How later in the day when he saw Brienne curl in on herself in his sweatshirt as if snuggling inside it for protection and she bit her lower lip, he’d been so hard and dizzy with lust, he’d had to book it to the bathroom _again_. 

As his hand had flown over his cock, he’d imagined tumbling Brienne hard. Just tossing her down and having his way with her. Stripping her naked and tonguing her breasts until she trembled. Kneeing open her quivering thighs and fingering her, opening her up so nicely, so sweetly, before screwing his cock inside her tight cunt and strumming her clit until she screamed in ecstasy. He’d come like a rocket, barely managing to keep Brienne’s name from escaping his lips.

The point is they have history. Messy, secretly horny, but ultimately chaste history.

So what’s her deal then? Her acting like them sharing a length of floor is scandalous or somehow a fate worse than death is seriously offensive. 

They don’t like each other, they’re not friends, but they’re cool, right? 

He’s the only guy she even sort of trusts so for her to act like that’s not true is bullshit. 

And it’s not just the touching, it’s the talking, too. He’s the only guy she’ll actually carry on a conversation with. To be fair, he is a sparkling conversationalist so not much is asked of her, but still, she makes an attempt at banter with him. Which is more than can be said for literally any other guy at school. Even her precious Renly. They all make her tongue-tied, but most of them are raging assholes so it’s not like she’s missing out on much by avoiding them.

And he’s the only guy that can make her blush. Well, that’s not entirely true. The girl blushes at the drop of a hat. But other guys make her turn fire engine red and it’s this cringing, mortified thing where her face glows like a neon light. In the beginning, Jaime earned some angry blushes like that, but now he usually inspires the fainter, rosier kind where she ducks her head and looks up at him through her lashes and her lips try not to smile and she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, and it's like night and day, okay? 

So why the fuck is she acting like he’s some creep?

Does she have a crush on Bronn? Is that it? Is she disappointed because she _wanted_ to be felt up by him? To be dry humped into the sofa cushions by some brazen prick who thinks pinching a girl’s ass is the height of romance? Or is it just that she’s suspicious of Jaime? That she thinks he’s the kind of jerk who’d wait 'til she was asleep to jump her bones?

Next thing he knows, she’s going to be demanding they sleep head to toe or some bullshit like that.

When Brienne keeps acting like she’s walking the plank, he pulls her aside and hisses to her that he can swap with Sansa if she’s that hot and _bothered_ about sleeping with him. “You can braid each other’s hair and I’ll try not to kill Bronn in his sleep when his snoring gets too loud.”

But instead of being relieved, she haltingly confesses that she doesn’t think Sansa would want to share with her. 

Jaime furrows his brow. “Why the fuck not?”

“I’m pretty sure she thinks I might be gay and would feel uncomfortable sleeping so close to me,” she says softly, ducking her head so her hair falls across her face like a curtain between them.

His hand clenches into a fist at his side. He knew there was a reason he’d never liked that willowy redhead. “Wow, she’s a real bitch, huh.”

“No, she’s not homophobic or anything,” she says hastily, her gaze imploring him not to believe the worst of her friend. “I just think she’d be worried she’d be giving me the wrong impression.”

As if that somehow makes it better. Christ, with friends like that...

“Thinks a lot of herself, doesn’t she?” he scoffs. “Clearly she didn’t notice the way your eyes popped out of your head at the pool party last summer when Renly wore those tiny speedos.” 

Brienne rolls her eyes, but at least that lost, forlorn look is gone. 

The cabin has indoor plumbing which is pretty much the only thing to recommend it. There’s no electricity, but at least it’s shelter from the storm. And there’s a fireplace to keep them from freezing to death.

For dinner they’re reduced to the power bars Brienne had ever-so-responsibly packed in her bag just in case and some canned goods they liberated from the cupboard. 

Cell reception is spotty, but eventually Margaery gets through to her grandmother and the old bat promises the blizzard should let up by dawn and that she’ll have someone out to collect them the next afternoon.

If all goes according to plan, they’ll arrive at the lodge this time tomorrow night so they can at least enjoy the remainder of their ski vacation. Jaime can’t wait to hit the slopes and leave Brienne in his dust. Margaery had boasted that Brienne was as good as a pro, but he'd show her he was no slouch either.

Jaime unrolls the sleeping bag that’d been stowed in his trunk from the last time he’d gone camping. Covetous glances are directed its way, but hell if he’s gonna share it. It’s his car, his sleeping bag, and the others can pry it from his cold, dead hands. But well, he supposes he'd be willing to share it with Brienne if the occasion calls for it. Which it does. 

He unzips the sleeping bag and beckons Brienne over. She looks twitchy, but she sets her jaw like she’s going to the gallows and joins him on the floor. Such a martyr. They tuck it around themselves and lie down. 

They start out lying side by side, Brienne coiled so tight, she’s making Jaime edgy. He initiates a tug-of-war with her to get her to stop lying so stiffly beside him, radiating supreme discomfort. It works. She loosens up after fighting with him over the covers. Elbows are thrown and he earns a soft huff of laughter when he finally relents. She turns onto her side away from him, but she’s at least closer and more relaxed. She’s not riddled with nerves or whatever the fuck. 

Just when he’s dozing off, his goddamn brother and Margaery start to fuck like rabbits. And there’s no prelude, they go from zero to fucking in 2 seconds flat. There’s the slap of skin against skin, the full-throated chuckle from Tyrion, the squeal from Margaery. The bedsprings groaning in time with their movements.

Brienne curls in on herself, but goes tense like she’s preparing to leap to her feet and spring into action when Tyrion suddenly grunts, “You’re a needy little whore, aren’t you,” and audibly spanks his girlfriend on the ass.

Quick as a flash, Jaime surges up to whisper in Brienne's ear, “It’s okay. It’s just dirty talk. She’s into it.” 

Margaery immediately proves his point by begging Tyrion to spank her harder and mewling like a wanton harlot. Which only makes Brienne flinch.

Christ, she’s acting like she’s never watched porn before or something. Which she probably hasn’t, considering how she’s always so prim and proper and scandalized by the littlest thing. He swears he can actually feel her burning up beside him.

For fuck’s sake, it’s _his_ brother putting on a show for them all. If anyone has the right to be revolted, it’s him. But no, Brienne’s an uptight prude who’s acting like she’s being traumatized by this shit and fuck. Jaime grits his teeth and shouts out to his brother, “Will you just finish already? Some of us are trying to sleep!”

There’s an answering smack and giggle and then Tyrion groans, “We’re getting there...”

If only he’d thought to bring his noise canceling headphones along, but he hadn’t anticipated being held hostage while his brother got it on in the same damn room as him.

Jaime rolls onto his side and tucks himself behind Brienne, plastering his chest to her back. He finds himself strangely protective of Brienne as if he needs to shield her, protect her maidenly ears from such depravity. She flinches every time one of them moans something particularly lewd. He curses under his breath and hauls her closer, takes her hand in his. He’s never been much for hand-holding, not even with any of the girls he’s dated over the years. 

He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing now. He’s just running on pure instinct.

He thinks maybe he’s trying to offset the vulgarity with a little sweetness. And she seems to respond to it, her fingers curling into his. He rubs his thumb over her knuckles and hushes her.

When the bed begins to creak even more loudly in time with their frantic rutting, Jaime pulls the edge of the sleeping bag up over Brienne’s exposed ear then presses his cheek to hers to help muffle the increasingly obscene wails.

When their orgasmic theatrics finally conclude, Jaime breathes a sigh of relief. He draws the sleeping bag back down under Brienne’s chin and says dryly, “It’s over, you can breathe again.”

The sound of Tyrion snoring is like music to his ears. Hopefully, they’ve tired themselves out with their raucous fucking and there won’t be a second round ahead.

Jaime doesn’t let go of Brienne and she doesn’t scoot away from him afterward. It is, after all, much warmer with them snuggled together. For all the forking he’s done over the years, it occurs to him he’s never once spooned. 

It’s nice. Surprisingly cozy and not restrictive the way he would've guessed. He'd always imagined cuddling would be a nightmare, a suffocating prison of sweaty, entwined limbs from which he'd yearn to break free. But he doesn't feel trapped, he feels drowsy and...safe.

A long enough interlude passes that they’re both beginning to doze again when the sound of kissing starts up, this time from the sofa above them.

When Jaime draws breath to tell Bronn to knock that shit off, Brienne elbows him and shakes her head. Of course, she wouldn’t want her sweet little friend to be embarrassed by him.

But when he goes to pull the sleeping bag up over her ear again, she stops him. She glares at him meaningfully in the firelight and he sighs in acknowledgement. Brienne’s always hovering over Sansa like a mother hen. She probably considers it her duty to listen in and make sure everything stays consensual. No one’s getting coerced on her watch!

Bronn and Sansa are more restrained than his brother and Margaery, but somehow their soft kisses are worse than the full-fledged carnal fucking of before. More erotic, less comical.

There’s an intimacy to the breathy sighs they share, the slow slide of their clothed bodies moving in tandem. Like waves lapping on the shore, he can tell they're finding their rhythm. 

He doubts it’ll go much further since Sansa Stark is a good girl who wouldn’t lose her virginity to a boy from the wrong side of the tracks with four other people in the same room. The only girl more innocent at school is the one currently shivering in Jaime’s arms. 

When Sansa whispers, “More, I want more,” Bronn rolls her under him and kisses her deeply.

“Here, spread your legs, darlin’. Let me give you a helping hand,” Bronn says, ragged and low.

There’s a sharp intake of breath then Sansa releases a long, drawn-out moan.

Whereas before Brienne was rigid and seemed like she wanted to punch someone, now she’s gone fidgety. She’s quivering and kind of hunching in on herself. 

Jaime knows what that means. 

If she were a different girl, he’d just roll her onto her back and dive between her legs to take care of her with his mouth, but he has an inkling Brienne would knee him in the face. He doubts participating in an orgy is on her bucket list.

Jaime isn’t immune to the sultry soundtrack being produced above them either. It moves him in a way the raw, unfiltered bow-chicka-wow-wow from earlier had only disgusted him. Of course, that’s also because one of the previous porn stars happened to be his brother. 

“Have you ever touched yourself like this before? No? You were missing out. It feels good, doesn’t it?” Bronn croons to Sansa and she wastes no time in agreeing emphatically with him.

Brienne shivers and Jaime wonders if she’s ever indulged herself. Ever dared to explore her body, to experiment with touch, gentle, rough, fast, slow, to see what best pleases her. Ever touched herself until she saw stars. He hopes so. 

He likes to imagine her tucked away in bed late at night, writhing in exquisite agony, her muscles bunching, straining for completion. The way her eyes would go wide with wonder, dark with desire, as she chased her pleasure. She’d bite her lip as her pale skin bloomed with heat and beads of sweat gathered on her brow. She’d probably keep the covers up to her chin and moan her release into the crook of her elbow so her father wouldn't hear. 

The fantasy lights up every nerve ending in his body.

When Bronn asks Sansa in that filthy-sweet way of his, “Can you take another finger, do you think? Ah, there, I knew you could do it. You're doing so well, sweetheart. Arch your back for me so I can see those beautiful tits of yours. Perfect,” Jaime has to swallow a curse. 

If only Pia had gone on this trip...

But when Brienne shivers again, he knows he wouldn’t have felt half this exhilarated even if he were balls-deep inside Pia right now and squeezing a handful of her ass. 

There’s something thrilling about listening to Brienne’s breath hitch, feeling her quiver in his arms. She's so damn responsive. When he rests his chin on her shoulder and noses her temple, she gasps and Jaime can’t help pressing closer so the front of him is completely flush against her back. His arm snakes around her waist to hold her to him and he bites back a groan. His jeans do nothing to conceal his condition from her and he knows she can feel him rock hard against her heavenly ass. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers. After a few seconds of silence he thinks no answer is an answer and that he should roll the fuck away, but then she gulps and gives a jerky nod. 

His hand at her waist skims under her fleece and t-shirt, splays out low over her bare belly to rub little circles there. Her breathing goes jagged and he can feel the way she’s squeezing her thighs together. His thumb catches on her belly button and they both jolt as if electrocuted. He aches to slide his hand lower, slip his fingers down between her legs. He doesn’t think it’d take much to get her to shake apart in his arms. His pinky ventures to stroke the edge of the elastic of her panties and it's the single hottest thing that's ever happened to him. 

He summons every last shred of willpower in his possession to not rut against her in a wild frenzy, to instead ease his hips back a sliver of a fraction. He hasn’t engaged in anything so juvenile as frottage in years and yet, right then he's so addled with lust he thinks he’d like nothing better than to hold onto Brienne and grind his cock against her cloth-covered ass until he comes in his pants like a horny kid just discovering what his cock is for.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, so wet for me,” Bronn growls. “Tell me, do your pretty tits feel neglected? Want me to fit my lips around your sweet rosebuds and suckle them while you ride my fingers? Would you like that, baby?”

“Yes...please...I need you,” and then there’s the wet, sloppy sounds of Bronn following through on his promise.

Brienne suddenly fumbles for his hand at her waist and squeezes it. Jaime squeezes back just as fiercely, trying to grapple for control. Her touch emboldens him enough to kiss her burning cheek as they lie there, poised on a knife’s edge.

Not two seconds later a high-pitched cry is followed by a low, gravelly bellow and finally the sounds from above fade away until there’s only the crackle of the fire from the hearth and blood pounding in his ears. Jaime and Brienne stay frozen in place as the satiated couple drifts off to sleep, blissfully unaware of the havoc they've wreaked on their friends' libidos. Bastards.

They’re both still wired. All keyed up and in need of release. Every fiber of his being aches to claim Brienne. He knows he could make it good for her, but a niggling voice inside reminds him that she hasn’t reached out to him at all except to take his hand. And when he’d asked if it was alright if he stayed pressed up against her, he’d merely received a nod. Tentative, nonverbal consent is a far cry from enthusiastic consent. Margaery and Sansa could attest to that. 

Even now she’s vibrating in his arms, but hasn’t guided his hand to her breast or between her legs, hasn’t wiggled her hips to rub back against him, hasn’t even uttered his name like an invitation. Her hand slipping out of his seems to confirm his suspicions. 

He pushes down his disappointment and inches away from her, whispers hoarsely that he’s going to use the bathroom. He barely gets the door shut and his fly undone before he’s coming like a freight train. 

When he returns all loose-limbed and relaxed, he finds Brienne in an even worse state than when he left. She’s squirming and trying to put space between them, scooting forward when he curls up behind her. 

But there’s something off...something wrong. A shift has taken place in the air while he was gone.

Jaime can only pursue her. His pursuit resembles some hybrid of wrestling and competitive hugging, but he’s aces at both. He gets her into a bear hug and refuses to let go and then realizes that her shoulders are hitching and she’s making these wounded little choked sounds. Not sex sounds, but like...like she’s crying. 

What the fuck.

His heart sinks and he grabs her shoulder to tug her toward him. She resists and he tugs harder. “Face me, damn you. Turn around.”

She finally complies and her face is wet, streaked with tears. The firelight makes her mournful eyes gleam.

He immediately loosens his hold. “What is it?” he asks and she just bows her head. “Did I...Did I scare you?”

She keeps her chin tucked to her chest, but shakes her head.

The idea that Brienne Tarth is crying is unthinkable. He’s never once seen her shed a tear in all the years he’s known her. And he’s been there each of the times she broke an ankle, a nose, and cracked a rib. He’s also been present for most of the shit assholes have thrown at her. And she’s always been so stoic, her face carefully blank, her gaze blistering with fury. 

She’s strong, always, proud, always. 

He thumbs away her tears and is trying to figure out what to say when she barrels into him, kissing him clumsily on the mouth before burying her face in the crook of his neck. 

The kiss happens so quickly, he doesn’t even register it until it’s over. The taste of salt lingers on his lips though. 

Jaime gathers her closer and rubs her back, kisses the crown of her head on a whim.

She snuffles against him, her hands fisting in the back of his fleece and his heart cracks wide open. 

This is...

He’s never felt...

What even is this?

The answer strikes him like a bolt of lightning and all he can think is – _Well, fuck_.

***

The next morning Brienne wakes up in Jaime’s arms.

Her eyes are swollen from crying and her mouth is dry when she swallows. 

Jaime’s thigh is between her own, his cock hard against her hip. He's pressed against her in a way that makes her body hum. His arms encircle her, one hand tangled in her hair while the other has crept up the back of her shirt and is splayed under her armpit so his thumb just happens to be brushing the underside of her breast. He’s still asleep, though, as is everyone else which is a relief.

Brienne tries to slip out of Jaime's arms undetected, terrified he’ll awaken and be appalled at the compromising position their sleep selves assumed. There's a close call when she goes to draw away and he grumbles and reels her back in, his arms winding around her waist, his face burrowing into her chest. She squeaks when he cups her rear and gives it a gentle squeeze, positive he's awake and messing with her, but no, it turns out Jaime is just an uber-handsy and affectionate sleeper. 

She waits for him to relax back into slumber fully to make her escape. The five minutes that follow are pure torture. 

Her nipples harden at the gusty warmth of his breath and liquid heat pools in her belly as his hands idly roam her back. She swears her heart stops when he rolls her and her hips tilt up in such a way that his cock nudges the crotch of her long johns. Her thighs involuntarily spread a bit wider at the feel of the length of him, the shape of him, so close to her center. He makes himself at home, palming the small of her back and maneuvering her so she's suddenly perched squarely on top of his cock. 

He holds her to him the way he had last night, firmly and with a proprietary surety that could almost fool her into thinking this is where she belongs - with him. 

She can feel every inch of him and if he were awake, he could feel the very seam of her pressed against him through his jeans. The contact is the most intimate, most profound, most blatantly carnal she's ever had. She throbs down there in a way she never has before, wanting him inside her with a white-hot blazing need that staggers her. She's equally relieved and devastated when he releases her and shifts away in his sleep.

She seeks sanctuary in the bathroom, fleeing there on unsteady legs. Splashes cold water on her face and tries to catch her breath. She hides in there for probably a half hour until there’s a knock at the door. Sansa wanting to brush her teeth.

Just facing everyone that morning is an excruciating ordeal. She can’t bring herself to meet any of their gazes directly. There are some things you just shouldn’t know about your friends. And the noises they make during sex tops the list. 

But worse than the racket Tyrion and Margaery made and the filthy, lustful words Bronn crooned to Sansa is the memory of Jaime’s arms around her. The indescribable sensation of being held by him will haunt her for the rest of her days. As will the kiss she stole.

After they all awaken and rub the sleep out of their eyes, Margaery confirms that her family’s driver will be there in three hours. 

“How ever shall we pass the time?” Tyrion asks with a lascivious waggle of his brow.

As soon as Margaery and Tyrion start making out on the bed, Brienne briskly zips up her coat and announces she’s going to get some fresh air. Bronn has coaxed Sansa onto his lap in front of the fire so Brienne asks if she wants to join her in case her friend needs an out. But Sansa just giggles and throws her arms around Bronn’s shoulders, saying she’s nice and toasty where she is. Brienne hopes she knows what she’s doing.

Jaime grabs his own coat and addresses the two amorous couples: "You better use this time wisely and get it out of your system. If you don't stop being horny on main by the time we return, we’re ditching you and going onto the lodge without you shameless tarts.”

Brienne’s face burns as both Tyrion and Bronn guffaw heartily. Margaery smiles slyly. Sansa’s the only one who looks chagrined in the slightest.

Brienne swings the door open, practically ripping it off its hinges in her haste to be elsewhere. She stomps off into the snow, hoping Jaime will take the hint and go build a snowman or something in the other direction. Of course, he’s far too contrary to accede to her wishes.

He trails along after her in silence for five minutes or so before seizing her hand. They grind to a halt, standing shoulder to shoulder in the middle of a grove of towering trees. 

“Tell me why you cried last night,” he demands gruffly without preamble, staring straight ahead. “We're alone. We don't have to make eye contact. There’s no one around to eavesdrop unless you count that squirrel. So spill. Did someone hurt you?”

That brings her up short. She didn’t realize until this very moment that tears in that particular context could’ve easily implied a history of rape or abuse. Those kind of dark scenarios wouldn’t have occurred to most teenage boys. She’s impressed they did Jaime. 

“No, it was nothing like that. It’s stupid.”

“Tell me.”

The truth is utterly mortifying, but she’d wept all over him last night and he’d been so inexplicably kind to her in return, she knows she owes him an explanation.

“I guess I was a bit jealous, that’s all. Hearing how...enthusiastic your brother and Margaery were and how sweet in his own way Bronn was with Sansa,” she begins, cutting herself off before she admits how it'd hurt to think she’ll never be the recipient of that kind of desire because she’s not that kind of girl. How it'd hurt when Jaime turned away from her to go to the bathroom last night, how she'd felt abandoned, rejected. 

She shuffles her feet, feeling every bit as awkward as she is. “Even the way we...shared body heat. You didn’t...I mean, neither of us...what we did, it wasn’t by choice. It just made me a little sad knowing that’s probably the only time I’ll experience being close with someone like that.” 

“Bullshit. Anyone would be lucky to spoon you. You’re warm, soft yet strong enough I didn't have to worry I'd squash you. Prime spooning material. If you’re embarrassed about losing your cuddling virginity to me, don’t be. I lost mine to you.”

“What?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’ve fucked my fair share of girls,” he says quickly, as if afraid she might think otherwise, “but I’ve never held any of them. Not properly, like to sleep. It was more of an accessibility issue. The backseats of cars aren’t exactly conducive to that kind of thing.”

She shakes her head and isn’t surprised to see that obnoxious smirk on his face when she glances at him in profile.

“And as far as Tyrion and Bronn are concerned,” he continues blithely, “they’re both randy little shits. My brother would climb you like a tree if you gave him the green light. And Bronn’s a total player. He talks to all the girls like that. Sansa's not special. If you wanted to switch places with her, he’d sweet-talk you the same way. You were the one he originally set his sights on, after all. But call me crazy, I don’t think you want to be seduced by some guy who doesn’t give a crap about you. To just be some notch on some asshole’s bedpost.”

Brienne gapes at him, appalled. “We need to go back. I need to warn Sansa.”

Jaime snickers. “You think she doesn’t know exactly who Bronn is? She’s slumming it and loving every second of it.” All amusement is gone from his voice though when he adds, “You should hold out for something real.”

“Don’t mock me,” she snaps, furious she let her guard down and this is how he’s repaying her.

He looks at her for the first time since they began this thorny conversation. “You’re the one person I’m not mocking. I’m mocking Bronn and Sansa, my brother and Margaery. You think any of what they did last night meant anything to them? Sansa, maybe, because she had a first or two. But down the road, she won’t even remember Bronn’s name. He’ll just be some guy from the wrong side of the tracks she daringly let fingerfuck her while stranded in a snowstorm, some generic bad boy she’ll laugh about with her girlfriends. She’ll erase the rest of us from the story she’ll tell because it’ll seem lurid if there was an audience. Much more palatable if it’s just she and the dashing rake trapped in an isolated cabin during a blizzard, stoking the flames of forbidden love.” He snorts with contempt.

“And I love my brother, but five years from now, Margaery will just be some hot girl he spanked once upon a time. One of a hundred such girls that will have followed. And Margaery? She won’t give a shit. Her own tally will rival his. None of what any of them did _matters_. There’s nothing to be jealous of there. Nothing.”

She studies him for a long moment. “Did you wait for something real?”

“No,” he admits with a laugh.

“Maybe I don’t want real. Maybe I just want to be wanted like anyone else. To touch and be touched, to not be alone. Why is that all right for everyone else, but somehow wrong for me?”

“I see. Maybe I misjudged you. When we get to the ski lodge, why don’t you bang the bellhop?" he suggests brightly. "I’m sure when you look up at him mid-fuck and see only lust swimming in his eyes, it won't faze you in the least. You won't feel cold and hollow and lonely. No, losing your virginity like that will be super fulfilling. Hell, if you're really lucky maybe he'll give you a pearl necklace before the week is out...not the kind bought in a jewelry store, mind you."

Brienne scowls at him then sighs in defeat. “I’m not like you. I'll be holding out forever if I want something real,” she says quietly, the silvery puff of her breath lingering in the frigid air.

“Will you,” he says and she nervously tugs on her sleeve at the knowing look in his eye. “Five years from now, I’ll remember you.” 

She huffs a small bitter laugh. “Right. A tall, hulking beast of a girl would be difficult to forget.” 

His gloved hands come up to frame her face. “I’ll do you one better...I’ll still _know_ you in five years. In fact, I’ll bet you a million bucks you and I will still be on speaking terms a _decade_ from now. That’s more than any of them can say.”

Snowflakes wreathe his golden hair, making it glitter like a crown. Fuck, but he's gorgeous. “You sound sure of yourself.”

“Oh, I am, Brienne. I am,” he says, leaning in. He pauses when he’s close enough she can feel his breath on her face. “See how I stopped halfway and am waiting for you to close the remaining distance? Not just stealing a kiss like a thief in the night? I have manners...unlike _some people_.”

She gives him a playful swat for that, but lets her palms linger on his chest. His heart is pounding and the proof that he’s not nearly as calm, cool, and collected as he’s pretending gives her the courage to point out, “You kissed me first. On the cheek.”

“So I did. Kiss bandits, the pair of us,” he says, smiling broadly. “Is this your way of telling me it’s my turn again? Because I’ll remind you that I also kissed the top of your head last night. And when you skinned your knee last year, who was there to kiss it better? If anyone here has been stingy with their kisses, it's you. You're lagging behind, Tarth. Time to catch up.” 

She takes a fortifying breath then leans in to taste something real. 

***

Ten years later Brienne wakes her husband with a long, thorough kiss. When Jaime chuckles and rubs his nose against hers, pulls her closer and asks what he did to deserve that, she shrugs.

"Just my way of saying, 'thanks a million.' Now lie back and collect your winnings."

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a tumblr anon based on the prompt - I wish you'd write a teen au where they're stranded at a cabin and have to share a bed. Their friends are also there and Braime can hear them having sex and they get frustrated and horny listening to them.
> 
> This was just supposed to be a short ficlet. I'm sorry this turned into such a meandering beast and that I basically dumped you into Jaime's pensieve full of all his horny reminiscences involving Brienne. This is why I shouldn't write Jaime povs.


End file.
